


With All My Heart

by mysterioussinkhole



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Also some Hadestown because I have to, Alternate Universe - Victorian, I imagine it taking place around 1870, Jon's going to find him!, M/M, Martin is lost in the woods!, Soft Over the Garden Wall AU, Some Missing Memory, The Powers are separate Beast-like entities, all of the statement givers are spirits, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 04:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21173201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterioussinkhole/pseuds/mysterioussinkhole
Summary: Martin is lost in the woods with little memory of why he's there. Jon refuses to lose him.





	With All My Heart

The woods were empty. This fact made precious little sense to Martin, but it was nonetheless true. Nothing rustled the leaves of the trees that grew so thick they blotted out the sky. Nothing whispered in his ear, beckoning him to sit down for a moment and transcribe a story. The forest busy with the spirits of the lost had fallen silent.

He could not remember how he had come to be here. The realization hit him unexpectedly, like waking up out of a vivid dream. The distinction between truth and fabrication at once clear and difficult to grasp. Had he lost Jon somewhere along the path? Surely, he would not have ventured here without the Archivist by his side. A chill began to seep into Martin’s bones, mist hanging in a thick suspension, stagnant. The way forward was obscured from view. He attempted to recall the past day that led him to this point, but all he could find were indistinct snatches of emotion and the beginnings of a headache clawing at his brain. He remembered…

_ Carrying Jon in his arms away from the remains of that infernal dance, the Archivist’s eyes rolled back into his head and his body limp. It was just as Basira had told him. Tim nought but ash. Daisy nowhere to be found. The Stranger’s faerie rings were burnt out and the surrounding trees were scorched and bare. She had not spared a thought to saving Jon, leaving Martin sure if he could ever fully forgive her. The man felt far too light. Delicate, like a doll. _

_ Jon tucked into his bed in the small room he had made up for himself in an annex of the Magnus Estate’s library. Without the furious vortex of his waking consciousness, it was deadly still. Martin smiled wistfully at the sight of his various book piles, amassed sporadically throughout the shelves wherever the Archivist decided to deposit himself. There were many nights he had found him slumped over some thick volume, exhaustion finally catching up with the frantic workings of his mind. He should not be sleeping so long. _

_ The doctor saying there was nothing to be done. By all accounts he should be dead. The fact that he was not was a mere technicality and could easily be ignored for convenience. Martin would have none of it. Jonathan Sims would live, damn the consequences. _

Things came less easily after that, but Martin knew that he was here to help Jon.

How?

At that thought, a beam of light pierced through the gloom. In his reverie, Martin had failed to notice the river until his feet were submersed. Frigid water had begun to seep into his boots. He could not summon the will to care just then. The light, coming steadily closer, caught his eye and nearly blinded him.

“Ho! Who goes there?!” a voice called out.

Shielding his eyes, Martin responded, “A wanderer! Who be you?!”

The faint outline of a rowboat loomed into view, a lantern hanging off the bow. Someone sat within, slowly steering up onto shore.

“Why much the same, my boy!”

Martin stumbled closer until he was able to grab onto the side of the boat. The man inside shimmered in the haze of fog illuminated by the glow of the lantern, the undefined edges of a spirit immediately obvious. His only definite features were fearsome blue eyes, near translucent skin, and a seaman’s cap perched on his head. Propping an elbow on the side, Martin gave him a suspicious once over. The cold of the river bit into his legs.

“Do you know where you are, young man?”

“Does a wanderer ever know?”

The spirit chuckled, “Fair enough. You’re the Archivist’s assistant, are you not? It does not seem wise to wander without him.”

Martin had long ago grown accustomed to the veiled threats of those who dwelt in the wood. They often tried to rattle Jon by offering to take him off his hands. It was old hat by now. He knew the rules; Jon drilled him meticulously on them prior to each venture out.

  1. Do not tell them your name.
  2. Do not follow spirits whom you have not made an accord with or taken testimony from.
  3. Trust no one.

Granted, the rules had arisen from the mind of a man plagued by paranoia, who spoke to lost souls on the regular but had staunchly refused to believe in them for a full year. But nevertheless, Martin trusted Jon implicitly. The guidelines had rarely hindered them in the past.

He missed him.

“Do you wish to give a statement?”

“All in good time,” he smiled. “Do you wish to come aboard? You look quite cold.”

It was almost certainly a trap. An attempt to lure Martin into the unknown and become fuel for whichever patron held this spirit. But… he was well and truly lost. He remembered nothing of his original plan. The only path apparent to him was the one being offered. Perhaps he could bind it? Martin’s suspicion must have been apparent on his face, for the spirit laughed at him, leaning in closer.

“A wary one, are you? Worry not, my boy. I bear you no ill-intent.”

“Prove it.”

The spirit straightened up at that, raising an eyebrow. Or at least the impression of an eyebrow.

“I offer you a bond until I have given you my story.”

A pregnant pause hung in the air. Martin knew it should be enough to keep himself safe, but… This was his only viable option other than stumble around blindly. And as a devotee to the Beholding he had a distinct distaste for ignorance.

“Go on,” he gave the spirit a slight nod.

Suddenly, the vague chill of the mist sharpened to icy pain as the spirit merged its hand through his in a tight grasp. It was the sort of concentrated cold that circled back around to burning. The spirit’s blue eyes seemed to bore into him.

“I shall neither lie to you nor lead you astray until you have taken my tale,” he whispered. “And if I break this bond my soul be forfeit to your patron.”

If it had been painful before, this was pure agony. The surrounding mist coalesced like a dagger straight through his hand. It wrung a sharp cry out of Martin and all at once dissipated. He clutched his hand to him, unmarked but still twitching with the remnants of unnatural pain. Shaking slightly, Martin gave the spirit a final appraising look.

“What is your name?”

“Peter Lukas. Are you coming aboard?”

With a sigh, Martin pulled himself into the rowboat. The wood was still mired in gloom, but the lantern at least gave hope for a way ahead.

\---

“Jon, you cannot be serious!” 

He flung Basira’s arm off of him, continuing to rifle through his belongings. She kept following him as he went from this closet or that trying to scrounge up the necessary supplies.

“There is nothing you can do for him,” she said. “He made his choice.”

“That does not matter!” he snarled back.

This was all his fault and he could not allow Martin to die for a wreck like himself. It could not end like this, before he had even had time to talk with him… Jon shoved an empty record book and several pens into his back. Just in case he found himself in the position to take a statement. He also grabbed a few jars of preserves. A small part of him knew that he would likely never need food again, at least not in the traditional sense, but its presence could help Martin even if it did nothing for him. Hopefully he liked peaches.

“Jon, look at me.”

“What?!”

Basira had a hard stare. No one in their small, rural community dared cross her. They had been terrified of her from the moment she came into town, calling herself a detective of all things and immediately taking up with suspicious company. Being said suspicious company, Jon refused to cave to her intimidation as a matter of principal. She did not make it easy.

“I know you feel responsible for him,” she said, her voice low and coaxing. “But Martin made his own choice. You should not risk your own life as well on the slim chance that you can get him back. Believe me, I have tried to help Daisy but… People don’t come back from making deals with the Dread Powers. You know that.”

Gathering his jacket and rucksack, Jon made as if to ignore her. He could save him. Everything would turn out for the best. It had to. He was halfway out the door when she spoke again.

“Are you truly doing this?”

Jon paused, breathing in the night air.

“There is little I would not do for him. Take care of the library while I am away.”

And with that he departed.

The Magnus Estate’s private library existed on the outskirts of a village at the base of a cliff. The Magnus Manor sat atop the cliff, looming over the village below with only a winding road to connect them. The Magnus family was not nobility, but were in possession of enough money to act as though they were. Naturally they had a library in their manor, but they had a legacy of interest in subjects unfit for polite society. The esoteric and the weird, primarily. Few reached the village without the intention to be there for it was surrounded by a dense forest that stretched on for several miles. The village folk told stories of evil spirits within it leading travellers astray, consuming wayward souls, demanding tribute. Only a fool would dare venture in.

Jonathan Sims was, historically, just that.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been awhile! Please send me comments and harass me to finish this!


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